


Odaxelagnia

by Davechicken



Series: The Emperor and his Knight [24]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 15:11:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7897543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Biting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Odaxelagnia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Isaac2Pace (Misty_Endings)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misty_Endings/gifts).



Kylo sits on the edge of the bed, naked, his hands resting palms-up on his knees. His head lightly bowed, his body thrumming with anticipation. 

His Master takes one wrist and slips a cuff around it, the leather worn and sure. It doesn’t even need to be pushed around, long broken in (like he is). The tongue slips through the metal gate, the post notched through the right hole, the circuit complete. Black and silver, heavy and soft, the plush lining a reassuring point around his pulse. 

His heart thuds against it, and with each diastole-systole is a promise of safety and security. A hug around the heart at every point. His second wrist is bound, and then a nod of Poe’s head has him pushed backwards into submission. He lifts his hands obediently, feels the carabiners locked around the answering loops that spread his arms wide, expose his chest, and leave him a gift unwrapped for his beloved.

Kylo never used to like how he looked. Not before Poe. He’d been too-weird, too-tall, too-odd, too-pale. He’d despised himself, and wanted to cover everything over. Under his Master’s eyes, though… he can _feel_ the blood flow proudly to the surface, a blush that’s no longer embarrassing, but a promise, a bond. An answer to Poe’s call, like the two parts of a many-voiced prayer. Now he can see - even if he doesn’t feel the same - that his body is pleasing to Poe, and that’s enough for him. He no longer has to hate himself, because Poe has taught him he’s not worthy of such hate.

His hair tumbles around his face, pillowing his fall. His legs are bound next: cuffs that match his wrists - and he’s spread-eagled over the bed for his Master’s pleasure.

Not a single flicker of shame. He can give pleasure, and so he has worth. He can find meaning in Poe’s words, in his gifts, his orders, his acts. The shared and echoed-back happiness they find in one another. Kylo wishes to serve, wishes to please. Poe loves to control, and to please in his own way. 

Creases around his beloved’s eyes, and they don’t even do anything for long, long moments. Just stare, and know, and feel. Kylo doesn’t feel the silence heavy, doesn’t feel the rapid-fire urge to push. (Sometimes he still does, but not always. Not always, not now.) Peace was never for him, but this is close. Poe’s calm, Poe’s levelness… he can live in that. 

“Your marks have faded, pet,” his Master tells him, a thumb dragging ellipses around the bony shadow of his ankle.   


“I’m sorry, Master.”  


“It’s alright. They always do. To make way for new ones.”  


Kylo _loves_ to be marked. He loves the harder feel of it, and loves the way his skin itches and burns with it the next day, how clothing makes the writings speak aloud. How he can _see_ the path his lover took, the care and devotion. 

Oh, he loves it.

The restraints give him just enough room to flex so he doesn’t lose his circulation, but not to escape. Not that he’d want to, but he likes to know they’re sound, sure, shored. 

Poe starts with his toes. He sucks them into his mouth, not planning on leaving marks there, just to tease and torment him. Kylo’s toes are ticklish, and he struggles not to kick Poe in the face. It’s only a momentary thing, though, because then Poe’s suckling and licking over the arch of his feet, and to the inside points of his ankles. Hands hold his feet still as tiny little bites pull at the thin skin there, then up and over the inside of his legs. Poe makes light work here, knowing there’s too little to him to really sink his teeth into… but as he crests over his knees and reaches the fleshier, inner thighs…

Kylo’s already-hard cock practically durasteels under the sudden, sharp, wet feel of Poe’s mouth along the softer flesh. They sink in (and not enough to break the skin, but close), then comes the slow, slow, _delicious_ slurping as Poe gulps and laps and swallows. His warm cheeks hollow, and his nose brushes Kylo’s leg as he pulls blood up to bruise. It does hurt, but also… not. Even the pain is a blaster-bolt of sensuous adoration, the nerve-endings alight like lightning-strikes all the way through his core. He can’t help but imagine how it would feel if Poe sucked that hard on his cock, and he feels it twitch and bead in horrific anticipation.

It would be too much. Right?

Right.

_(No.)_

The kiss breaks, then the tongue draws lovehearts over the spot. Kylo’s lost in the sensation, his ass squirming into the bed as he revels in it. His cock bobs hopefully through the thin air, wishing for something more substantial, but never demanding. (Not yet, anyway.)

“Alright, pet?”  


Oh, yes yes yes yes yes.

Poe’s eyes laugh, and then there’s a lick to the crease where leg meets groin and his mind goes _sideways_. Up, and to his hip. There’s less muscle there, so the mark is quicker, sharper, wine-deep. Kylo’s fingers curl, and the bed trembles from the Force-flickers he can’t quite contain. (Poe long since got used to _those_.) Up, and over his belly. Some of those tickle, and he feels his dick graze under Poe’s slightly-stubbled throat as his lips map out directions on his stomach… up, up, up…

To a nipple. Little licks. Little laps. Little warnings, and then he clamps down and sucks for all he’s worth, teeth feeling like they’re about to skin him bare, to pull away and leave only a skeleton behind. Kylo _screams_ and the weight of Poe straddling his hips is the only reason he doesn’t buck right the hell off the mattress.

Across to the other side, and Kylo’s not sure he remembers what time is any more. The glory of it flares so bright in the Force, the love and adoration and completion of being so wanted, so, so… _loved_. Oh, he can’t bear it, and he’s not sure what’s slipping out of his lips, only that there’s a lot of it. 

The pressure abates, but his flesh still tingles with everywhere Poe’s been. By the time he reaches his collarbones, Kylo’s trying to hump the ass sitting astride him, and Poe stops to look down at him. 

“Do you want to be inside of me, love?”  


Kylo loves to, almost as much as he loves Poe inside of himself. He loves the closeness more than anything else, the feeling of how they’re together. Right now, in this position, it would be difficult for Poe to fuck him, but he can definitely do the other thing.

“Please, Master.”  


It’s a treat, to get to be inside of him. It’s not unheard of, but it happens less often usually. Kylo watches as Poe lubes up his fingers, staring at the movement of his shoulder and listening to the wet, bodily sounds until his Master’s back to his collar, lapping over the dip, driving his thoughts out of orbit again.

Lap, lap, nip, suckle. A slick hand around his cock, and then he’s held still as Poe slowly lowers himself onto and around him. He feels the grip, snug and sure, and his cock screams to move, but he can’t. Can’t. Won’t. Lies back, hands and feet and jaw tense, and then the rocking starts and Kylo knows _bliss_.

“Master…”  


“Shh. I know. I know.”  


Poe settles lower down, and with a shimmy of his hips he gets himself fully seated on his lap. Thighs to thighs, and Kylo drifts, the feeling both snug and safe and warm and secure. A hug, all, all the way around. He doesn’t even open his eyes when Poe’s lips resume their contract blooded over his skin, the circles of ownership stronger than any Death Star, the power a magic all of its own. He floats underneath him, surrendering to the sway of their bodies, hard and soft, and by the time Poe is finished marking him up…

Kylo can tell he’ll look like an alien species come the morning. And he _loves_ it. He gazes drunkenly up, then, as Poe settles his weight and grabs his hands against the bed for purchase. 

And then he _moves_. Oh does he _move_. Kylo’s eyes are caught in his, and the circular perfection of their partnership: as circular as the collar high up on his neck, where the bites below echo the shape. As circular as the kisses purpled onto his nipples. As circular as the four bonds around his wrists and ankles. Around, holding them together, and Poe surges to chase his pleasure with all the intensity he applies to _everything_ he does. Up and down and around and deeper and Kylo’s out of his mind with it.

When he comes, it’s almost a relief. A relief, until he realises he forgot to ask for permission, and his Master still hasn’t found his own. 

“It’s okay,” Poe says, as he pulls up and off. 

Kylo’s too under to feel real distress, and when Poe’s cock pushes up against his lips, he opens them and tilts his head and moans soft gratitude as his Master finishes with firm, sure thrusts over his tongue and against his throat.

He struggles to swallow, and then all that’s left is the soft, snuggly period after. Poe curls up on his chest, head on his shoulder, and they come back to the ship with no hurry in the universe. Every place his lips have been like a map of their affection, and a reminder to all who look: _this is the Emperor’s beloved_. He is wanted. He is cared for. He is _safe_.  



End file.
